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Monday, August 31, 2009

On this blog I’ve devoted a lot of space to discussing why we writers should develop and practice the habit of empathy.* By empathy I mean this: We should always try to understand our readers, know what they are likely to be thinking, and anticipate how they will respond to everything we write.

As you have probably noticed, I write my critiques in terms of empathy. As I critique each passage, I describe what most readers are probably thinking. I write my critiques this way in order to help you sharpen your ability to think of the reader as you write or edit. A well-developed habit of empathy – more than anything else – is the mark of a professional.

Here’s another viewpoint on the same topic. Bestselling author Seth Godin recently wrote a blog post about careless writing. In an apologetic tone, he said he doesn’t intend to conclude that careless writers are stupid people, but that he can’t help doing so. And he hinted that many other readers react the same way he does.

The Takeaway: Always keep in mind that your intelligent readers judge you by the precision and clarity of your writing.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

While attending college four decades ago, I heard a professor say, “The human race is only one generation away from ignorance. It always has been and always will be. If teachers stopped teaching, the next generation would remain in near-total ignorance. Don't kid yourself that they would use the libraries. They'd be more likely to burn the books for heat.” (His words approximately, from my unaided recall.)

Monday, August 24, 2009

We frequently produce not-so-clear writing by using bad diction (inaccurate, vague or confusing choices of words). One especially damaging form of bad diction is the misuse of what I call “the uninhabited clause.”

An uninhabited clause is a main clause* with a subject that is a physical thing or a concept, as opposed to a person or group of persons. In short, an uninhabited clause is a main clause that has no people in it. If you use a lot of uninhabited clauses, you confuse and tire your readers.

An example of the overuse of uninhabited clauses

A textbook example appeared today. In an article headlined “Enough Is Enough,” Robert Foss, a retired government employee, says government imposes excessive penalties for violations of laws and regulations involving driving, drugs and guns.

Mr. Foss presents good arguments for less-stringent regulation and less-severe penalties. But in his closing paragraph, he weakens his article by using uninhabited clauses from beginning to end.

Here is the paragraph:

“The official reaction to gun usage, both legal and illegal, is so predictably severe that one must wonder what the real motives are. Actually, it is not difficult to discern the real motives, which are to disarm the populace and to intimidate us with outrageous responses to any use of guns. This prison sentence is another example of the widespread use of inappropriately lengthy prison sentences for ‘crimes’ that do not deserve such punishment. There appears to be an official attitude that, if we give enough people lengthy jail time, then the ‘correct’ attitudes toward these crimes will be encouraged, and we will have less of those ‘crimes.’ Rather than having that desired result, this attitude of putting people in jail for long periods merely fosters resentment, makes it more difficult for those so sentenced to be productive members of society, and it polarizes the electorate into those ‘for’ and ‘against’ long prison terms for ‘crimes’ that demand more just and equitable treatment. The descent of our culture into one with less liberty and more government intrusion into our lives has resulted in a situation where reasonableness has disappeared when the crime is in one of these three areas. The result is that we have a society full of vengeance rather than one that is full of freedom, common sense, and trust in the citizenry. This ridiculous sentence for Mr. Burress, which was motivated by intimidation rather than a sense of justice, is just the latest example of an officialdom run amok, and it is way past time for Americans to cry out to their elected officials who apply these sentences, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!”

As you can see, the author has not used one subject that refers to a person or group of persons. This lack of reference to human beings makes the paragraph difficult to read.

And he has used mostly weak verbs (to be and to appear). The heavy use of these verbs makes the paragraph even more difficult to read.

Judge the effect for yourself. Read the article; it consists of four paragraphs. For three paragraphs, it reads mostly smoothly, like driving on an asphalt-paved country road with an occasional pothole or frost heave. Then, when you reach the fourth paragraph (the one quoted above), the pavement ends and you are crunching on gravel or sinking into sand.

Whenever you notice that your reading pace has slowed and the reason is not obvious (for example, the prose is full of jargon or the sentences are very long), the author has probably used too many uninhabited clauses. Check the subjects and verbs and see for yourself.

The Takeaway: Try to put people in most of your main clauses. In other words, try to use subjects that refer to persons or groups of persons, not things or concepts. Also, try not to rely too heavily on weak verbs such as to be, to have, and to appear.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Grammatical parallelism is the use of equivalent syntax to array equivalent ideas. Grammatical parallelism is also known as parallel structure, parallel construction, and parallel form.

In two previous posts (1, 2), we discussed examples of parallelism; one example involved a series of nouns separated by the conjunction and (in some cases, implied). The other example involved two series of clauses, each clause beginning with “we shall fight.” The clauses in each series were separated by commas, with no conjunctions (asyndeton).

Today we discuss another example of parallelism. It is from an August 14, 2009 article headlined "Blindsided."

An example of parallelism

The example is a series of three consecutive sentences. Each sentence is a rhetorical question about the reader’s future:

“Will you lose the house? Will your kids go to college? Will your spouse get fed up with you and kick you out?”

The writer clearly intended these three sentences to be parallel. But he executed carelessly:

The first sentence asks whether a negative outcome (you lose the house) will occur.

The second sentence asks whether a positive outcome (your kids go to college) will occur.

The third sentence asks whether a negative outcome (your spouse kicks you out) will occur.

The typical reader will pause after the second sentence. The reader silently asks himself, “Where’s he going with this? First he asks whether something catastrophic will happen and then he asks whether something positive and normal will happen.”

If the reader doesn’t give up and stop reading at this point, he continues to the third sentence and probably figures out that the writer made an error in parallelism:

“Oh, I see. The writer meant each of the three sentences to speculate whether a specific catastrophe will happen. But in the middle sentence, he accidentally reversed the logic; instead of asking whether a catastrophe will happen, he asked whether something normal and good will happen. He must have meant to ask if the normal and good thing will fail to happen.”

At this point, the reader knows that the writer is careless with his syntax (or is generally careful but is having a bad day). The reader may stop reading. If he doesn’t, he will very likely stop three paragraphs later, when he encounters an egregious mixed metaphor. And there is another egregious mixed metaphor eight paragraphs after that one.*

The Takeaway: Check your parallel constructions to make sure they are truly parallel. Remember, when you publish what you write, you are implicitly asking the reader for his continued voluntary attention. Every time you use syntax carelessly, the intelligent reader (consciously or unconsciously) assigns you a demerit. If the demerits keep accumulating, eventually he will stop reading. He may even decide to avoid your writing altogether in the future.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Grammatical parallelism is the use of equivalent syntax to array equivalent ideas. Grammatical parallelism is also known as parallel structure, parallel construction, and parallel form.

On August 20 we discussed a portion of a speech by Winston Churchill (photo), in which he used a memorable series of nouns: “blood, toil, tears and sweat.”

It was a good example of parallelism – each of the equivalent ideas was expressed by a one-word noun. But equivalent ideas may also be expressed as phrases or clauses.

An example of parallelism

Today we critique an example of parallelism involving clauses. It’s an excerpt from another speech by Mr. Churchill; he delivered this speech to the House of Commons on June 4, 1940. Very likely, you are familiar with it.

The excerpt:

“Even though large parts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender…”

This excerpt is, of course, famous for the use of clauses beginning with “We shall fight.” This is an example of parallelism. It is also an example of the rhetorical devices known as anaphora and asyndeton.

Parallelism, by itself, is a powerful device. But the masterly Mr. Churchill added even more power, by brilliantly executing the device. Let’s take a look at three details of the execution.

Avoiding overuse

The first detail is that he takes care to avoid overusing the powerful device of parallelism and thereby tiring the reader. He begins eleven clauses with “we shall” – but only seven of them include the word “fight.”

He begins with:

we shall not flag or failwe shall go on to the end

They create a rhetorical warm-up for the reader before three “we shall fight” clauses in a row:

we shall fight in Francewe shall fight on the seas and oceanswe shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air

Notice that in the third of those clauses Mr. Churchill inserts a prepositional phrase (“with growing confidence and growing strength”) before the expected prepositional phrase beginning with “in” or “on.”

Then he makes an even wider detour with the rhetorically beautiful phrase

we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be

And then back again to the “we shall fight” clauses:

we shall fight on the beacheswe shall fight on the landing groundswe shall fight in the fields and in the streetswe shall fight in the hills

And then a simply worded but powerful conclusion:

we shall never surrender…

In summary, he intentionally breaks up the rhythm now and then, so as to add variety and avoid using 11 “we shall fight” clauses in a row.

Scorning the enemy

The second detail is that he never says “The Germans” or “The Axis.” He doesn’t even say “the enemy” or even “them.” It would have been quite natural to have said, “We will fight them...” The hearer or reader consciously or unconsciously notices this omission of a direct object; by omitting the expected direct object, Mr. Churchill silently and cleverly scorns the enemy.

(Before he gets to the “we shall” clauses, he does refer to “the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule.” But these words also scorn the enemy, by referring not to the German state but only to its police department and its ruling political party.)

Using the sequence to tell a story

The third detail is the sequence of the places where “we shall fight.” The sequence tells a story. Picture the story in your mind:

in Franceon the seas and oceansin the air(we shall defend our Island)

on the beacheson the landing groundsin the fields and in the streetsin the hills

(we shall never surrender)

You see it. He begins by referring to the then-current battle in France. Then he imagines the sea and air defenses against an invasion of his country, Great Britain. He summarizes this part of the imagined war with “we shall defend our Island.”

Then he imagines that those defenses may fail, and he imagines the first land-based defenses against the invader: on the beaches and landing grounds.

Then he imagines that those defenses may fail in turn, and he imagines the deeper-inland defenses in the rural fields and city streets.

Then he imagines that even those defenses may fail, and he imagines the last place where the defender of an invaded country ends up fighting: in the hills. He summarizes this part of the imagined war with “we shall never surrender.”

The Takeaway: Grammatical parallelism (also called parallel structure, parallel construction, and parallel form) is a powerful device. Use it where appropriate and as appropriate and you will make your prose clear, pleasant and persuasive.

As I’ve said before, I generally avoid critiquing newspaper headlines. Because they are severely restricted as to length, newspaper headlines are not strictly prose. Like telegrams, Twitter tweets and PowerPoint slides, they are a form of shorthand.

However, I can’t help chuckling at the occasional amusing headline that slips into print. Here are two recent examples:

The Takeaway: It’s not fair to hold newspaper headline writers to the standards of discursive prose. These writers are often forced, by length restrictions, to commit errors in grammar and even logic. If you are a sharp-eyed reader – and I hope you are – you will frequently spot unintentionally amusing headlines.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Grammatical parallelism is also called parallel structure, parallel construction, and parallel form. It is the use of equivalent syntax to array equivalent ideas.

An example of parallelism

Winston Churchill (photo) used parallelism to great effect in his speeches. For example, in a speech to the House of Commons on May 13, 1940, he used this memorable sentence:

“I would say to the House as I said to those who have joined this government: I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.”

Every object of the preposition but is a noun: blood, toil, tears and sweat. This use of parallel structure made it easy for his listeners (and later, readers) to understand the logic of the sentence. The structure also made the sentence more pleasing aesthetically and more persuasive.

In contrast, consider what would have happened if Mr. Churchill had for some reason used the gerund weeping instead of tears:

…blood, toil, weeping and sweat.

The logic is the same; the sentence conveys roughly the same message. And the grammar is correct in a narrow sense: a gerund can be functionally equivalent to a noun. (It is correct to say, “I have nothing to offer but weeping.”)

But “blood, toil, weeping and sweat” sounds wrong, because the gerund stands out against the nouns. It breaks up the parallel structure and confuses the listener or reader. And it is less pleasing aesthetically.

Or, imagine if Mr. Churchill had used the infinitive to toil instead of the noun toil.

…blood, to toil, tears and sweat.

Again, the logic is the same. Again, the grammar is correct in a narrow sense: an infinitive can be functionally equivalent to a noun. (It is correct to say, “I have nothing to offer but to toil.”)

But “blood, to toil, tears and sweat” sounds wrong, because the infinitive stands out against the nouns. It breaks up the parallel structure and confuses the listener or reader. And it is less pleasing aesthetically.

The Takeaway: Take advantage of the power of grammatical parallelism (also called parallel structure, parallel construction, and parallel form). Parallelism can help make your prose clear, pleasant and persuasive.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

When we misplace modifiers, we often create unintentional humor – and thereby distract our readers. For example, a recent article in The New York Times (registration required) included this sentence:

“Dr. Frumkin is a founder of Nucleix, a company based in Tel Aviv that has developed a test to distinguish real DNA samples from fake ones that it hopes to sell to forensics laboratories.”

Better:

Dr. Frumkin is a founder of Nucleix, a company based in Tel Aviv that has developed a test to distinguish real DNA samples from fake ones. The company hopes to sell its test to forensics laboratories.

This rewrite is two words longer than the original. We give up a little concision to gain a lot more clarity. A worthy trade-off.

The Takeaway: To avoid unintentional humor, avoid misplaced modifiers. Place every modifier close to the word or phrase it modifies. If that isn’t possible, and you think the reader may associate the modifier with the wrong word or phrase, then recast or break up the sentence.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Here’s another great example of concise writing that is also clear writing. It’s from On Writing, Editing, and Publishing, a collection of essays by the great historian, writer and teacher Jacques Barzun (photo).

In 103 words, Mr. Barzun summarizes his position on the controversial topic of the evolution of language:

There is no getting around it: meaning implies convention, and the discovery that meanings change does not alter the fact that when convention is broken, misunderstanding and chaos are close at hand. True, the vagaries of those who pervert good words to careless misuse seem more often ludicrous than harmful. This might give us comfort if language, like a great maw, could digest anything and dispose of it in time. But language is not a kind of ostrich. Language is alive only by a metaphor drawn from the life of its users. Hence every defect in the language is a defect in somebody.

The Takeaway: To improve the clarity of your writing (almost effortlessly!), spend at least ten minutes a day reading aloud from writers who write clearly, such as Jacques Barzun. The topic you select doesn’t matter, because you’re reading for style not content.* If you would like a list of recommended writers and works, please email me at the address shown in my profile. Ask for my “List of Writers to Absorb.” I will respond via email.

*However, the content of On Writing, Editing, and Publishing, including essays on goals, discipline, bad writing, translating and writer’s block, will interest most writers.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Metaphors are, of course, useful for emphasizing, explaining and illustrating our key points and for entertaining our readers. But mixed metaphors work against us. They distract our readers.

Definition of a mixed metaphor

A mixed metaphor is a series of two or more metaphors that become incongruous when combined.

Example of a mixed metaphor

A good example of a mixed metaphor appeared last Friday, in an article headlined “Blindsided.”*

“I concluded from intensive study that for most of a century growing optimism led to trust in a debt pyramid so large that its shadow simultaneously falls on every part of the globe. Asset values are pyramided on top of one another where the price of each asset is supported by debt at multiple orders of magnitude, each strand of this web depending upon nothing but creditor confidence that the debtor can make good on the debt.” (Boldface added.)

The first metaphor, even before it mixed with the second, distracts the reader. The writer is attempting to illustrate the size of a debt by using the old familiar metaphor of a pyramid. But when he adds “so large that its shadow simultaneously falls on every part of the globe,” he is attempting to conjure an unimaginable picture. It is absurd on its face: no structure on earth could be large enough to cast a simultaneous shadow on every part of the globe. One reason is that the globe is spherical.

Because the reader can’t imagine the picture, the metaphor distracts the reader – and possibly amuses the reader in a way the writer did not intend.

Then the writer mixes in a second metaphor, "this web." It does what every mixed metaphor does: it distracts the reader. The reader wonders, "How does the 'web' relate to the 'pyramid'?" And, to make matters worse, the reader cannot even understand what the “web” metaphor stands for, because the preceding text is a confusion of passive voice verbs, vague adverbs and vague prepositions.

Example of a mixed metaphor

Later in the same article, the writer uses a triple mixed metaphor, one that will almost certainly amuse most readers:

“Unfortunately, a populace ignorant of economic fundamentals is fertile ground for charlatans and their news media megaphones promoting ‘hair of the dog that bit you’ policy fixes.” (Boldface added.)

“The Heartland of America is furious and is finally finding its voice. It is time for the slumbering populace to wake up, read the founding documents, remind themselves of the truths of our country and fight this illegal usurpation of power by an out-of-control federal government. America is at a crossroads. Will the Heartland take back its country or is it destined for collapse? You decide.” (Boldface added.)

Some of the metaphors are mixed; some aren’t. In any event, this is a lot of metaphors for a 66-word paragraph. The effects on the reader are distraction and (unintended) amusement.

And there’s one more ill effect: When a writer uses metaphors this frequently, many readers will become totally distracted. They will stop paying attention to the writer’s message and start watching for the next metaphor.

It’s similar to listening to and watching a public speaker who has a distracting habit – say, clearing his throat or adjusting his eyeglasses. Eventually, you tune out his message because most of your mind is listening for the next throat-clearing or watching for the next eyeglass-adjustment.

The Takeaway: Whenever you write, pay close attention to your metaphors: (1) Use them sparingly. (2) Double-check the definition of each metaphor you use. (3) Make sure each metaphor is clear and imaginable. (4) Make sure there is no chance of a mixed metaphor – unless you are deliberately creating a mixed metaphor for the purpose of humor. Have someone edit your copy: for some reason, detecting mixed metaphors is difficult for the writer but easy for the reader – even the casual reader.

*I am not “singling out” or “picking on” the authors of the two articles cited here. I chose their articles for educational purposes only.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

The preposition “at” has at least 13 definitions. Most prepositions are similar to the preposition “at” – they have many definitions. This is the main reason why we often use prepositions in confusing ways.

Example

Here’s a typical example of a confusing use of the preposition “at.” Last week in The Huffington Post, Sam Stein wrote a piece headlined “Pelosi Protesters, Including Kid In Stroller, Compare Obama To Hitler.” The first two paragraphs read as follows:

"Two members of the audience at House Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s (D-Calif.) town hall meeting in Denver, Colorado, on Thursday – including a toddler in a stroller – were bedecked with images equating Barack Obama’s policies to Nazism and the president to Hitler himself.

"The photos, which were passed to the Huffington Post by a Democratic reader, are the latest evidence of the increasingly wild accusations leveled by protesters at health-care town halls – though these may be some of the more remarkable yet." (Boldface added.)

On encountering the preposition “at,” the reader may think that the town halls were the target of the accusations. (The second definition of the preposition “at” is “To or toward the direction or location of.”)

But then the reader realizes that the logic of that statement is probably wrong. Usually, an accusation is leveled at a person(s). So, the writer probably meant that the protestors were at town halls when they leveled their accusations at Congressmen. In other words, the writer used the preposition “at” in its first definition, “In or near the area occupied by; in or near the location of.”

A clear version of the sentence would be something like this:

The photos, which were passed to The Huffington Post by a Democratic reader, are the latest evidence of the increasingly wild accusations that protesters at health-care town halls are leveling at Congressmen – though these may be some of the more remarkable accusations yet.

The Takeaway: Remember that prepositions such as “at,” “in,” “on” and “over” have many definitions. Whenever you use a preposition, be sure that the surrounding syntax makes the meaning of the preposition clear.

Friday, August 14, 2009

To review: An “uninhabited clause” (my coinage) is a main clause* with a subject that is a physical thing or a concept, as opposed to a person or group of persons. In short, an uninhabited clause is a main clause that contains no people. And typically it contains no strong verbs.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with uninhabited clauses, just as there is nothing inherently wrong with butter. However, we sometimes abuse uninhabited clauses, just as we sometimes abuse butter. The abuse of uninhabited clauses fattens and softens our prose.

Lawyers abuse uninhabited clauses more than laymen do.** This is one reason why many lawyers write hard-to-read copy, even when they are not writing legal documents. Here’s an example of a lawyer-written article with a lot of uninhabited clauses. (To his credit, he is a better writer than most lawyers are.)

Example

Timothy Baldwin, Esq., wrote an article headlined “Line in the Stand: The State Sovereignty Movement,” which was published on August 11. Below are the first two paragraphs of the article. I have boldfaced the subjects of main clauses and italicized the verbs of main clauses.

“On July 10, 2009, Alaska Governor Sarah Palinbecame the second governor in these States United (Governor Phil Bredesen of Tennessee is the other one) to sign into effect a State Sovereignty Resolution. These Sovereignty-type bills, resolutions and lawsare an obvious and rightful response that the super-majority of the States in the Union are expressing to and against the usurping powers of the federal government. While the effects of federal tyranny are being felt more seriously than ever, history and human natureprove that the people of a society do not respond or revolt immediately against tyranny–though they have a right to. America’s resistanceis no different. Fortunately, the sleeping giantis being awakened, to the dismay of our Centralist-worshipers today.

“An observer of history and these current events cannot help but draw strikingly similar comparisons to America’s political struggles during the early to mid-1800s, where there was a serious threat to our original form of constitutional government by the Centralists of that day. During the presidency of John Adams, the people of the States realized and rejected the pro-centralist view of Adams and his ilk (e.g., Alexander Hamilton), and a battle between the ideology of centralism and federalism thrust itself into the forefront of political concern.”

The eight main clauses contain nine verbs. Of the nine verbs, five are weak verbs:

becameareisis (as the auxiliary verb in a passive-voice construction)can

Four verbs are strong verbs:

proverealizedrejectedthrust

Note that the strongest of the strong verbs, thrust, is “wasted” on a non-person subject, battle. And, if we consider subordinate clauses, the strongest verb is usurping. However, it is buried: It appears in the form of a present participle modifying the object of a preposition. So it, too, is “wasted.”

Effect on the reader

Readers tire when they read many consecutive paragraphs like the two above, because uninhabited clauses are more difficult to process than inhabited clauses. To hold readers’ attention longer, put in a few more people.

For example, in the sample above, the writer could recast the second sentence:

“These Sovereignty-type bills, resolutions and laws are an obvious and rightful response that the super-majority of the States in the Union are expressing to and against the usurping powers of the federal government.”

into two sentences, like this:

Federal politicians are usurping powers. State legislators are are rightfully challenging the usurpation, by means of sovereignty-type bills, resolutions and laws.

Can you feel the difference? The change adds two inhabited clauses, both with strong verbs.

The Takeaway: Try to put people in most of your main clauses. In other words, try to use subjects that refer to persons or groups of persons, not things or concepts. Also, try not to rely too heavily on weak verbs such as to be, to have, and to become.

*Also called primary clause, independent clause, and sentence.

**Don’t sue me. I am merely describing typical traits. I am not saying or even implying that every lawyer abuses uninhabited clauses.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Here is another great example of concise writing that is also clear writing. It is from the short story, “Mrs. Halifax and Rickie Swann: A Ballad,” by Joyce Carol Oates.

In this short story, Rickie Swann is a fourteen-year-old living with his mother and step-father. The step-father has no significant role in the action, but the author needs to introduce him so that the reader can “meet” the whole family. So the author introduces the step-father and finishes with him in one paragraph.

Many authors would be tempted to treat such a paragraph as a routine task. But the masterly Ms. Oates captures a man, a career, a marriage and a retirement – and even something of the town – in these remarkable 138 words:

Rickie tried to love his step-father who spent most of his time now indoors in a Barcaloungernoisily sucking oxygen through tubes in his nose and flicking through ninety-nine TV channels. Mr.Swann suffered from emphysema caused by years of inhaling the toxic stink of hogs bound for slaughter. Mr. Swann said the hogs, unlike cows, knew where they were headed and so shat in a continuous diarrhetic stream you could smell not only in the cab of his truck but everywhere in the truck’s wake. Something of the brooding diarrheticmelancholy of the doomed hogs clung to Mr.Swann even in his retirement years with his “new family” which he’d hoped would have been a happy time. Over the years Rickie had grown accustomed to the smell of his step-dad and hardly ever noticed it any longer.

Joyce Carol Oates consistently exhibits craftsmanship like this – in novel after novel and story after story. She is a marvel.

The Takeaway: If you are serious about improving the clarity of your writing, I strongly recommend that you spend at least ten minutes every day reading aloud from writers who write clearly, such as Joyce Carol Oates. The topic you select doesn’t matter, because you’re reading for style not content. If you would like a list of recommended writers and works, please email me at the address shown in my profile. Ask for my “List of Writers to Absorb.” I will respond via email.

Monday, August 10, 2009

I welcome your suggestions for future blog posts. If you spot a good example of unclear or not-so-clear writing, and you would like to see me critique it, please make a comment to this post, identifying the writing sample and specifying its URL.

Please be aware that I may not be able to use every suggestion, for one or more of the reasons explained below.

Exceptions

On this blog, I do not critique anything written by a young child or by a non-native English speaker who has not yet achieved high fluency. Obviously, we should not hold these people to the clarity standards of adult, native English speakers.

And believe me, I do empathize. Once, while traveling alone in France, I had to write a one-page letter in French. It took me three hours. The recipients later told me that they had laughed until their stomachs ached.

Generally I do not critique legal documents, newspaper headlines, PowerPoint bullets, telegrams (do people still send those?), or Twitter tweets -- even if I have permission. Strictly speaking, none of these is prose, or is intended to be, and therefore none of these is subject to the rules for prose.

Etiquette

As I have explained in several posts, the purpose of this blog is educational, not sensational. I select samples of prose that enable me to explain specific concepts and techniques of clear writing. Occasionally I state my opinion that a certain type of error is typical of a group (e.g., politicians, university professors, or business journalists), but I never intend to single out a person for criticism.

The Takeaway: Comment on this post. Indicate a writing sample(s) that you would like to see critiqued. Include the URL. Thank you. Here's to clear writing!

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

We frequently produce not-so-clear writing by using bad diction (inaccurate, vague or confusing choices of words). One especially damaging form of bad diction is the misuse of what I call “the uninhabited clause.”

An uninhabited clause is a main clause* with a subject that is a physical thing or a concept, as opposed to a person or group of persons. In short, an uninhabited clause is a main clause that has no people in it.

So, is the lack of people necessarily wrong? It depends on the context. When we write academic and technical copy, we use a lot of uninhabited clauses, most of them for a valid reason: to describe events, processes or relationships that do not directly involve people.

Example

For example, planets revolve around suns, water erodes rock, nitrogen feeds plants, and so on. As you can see, those non-human subjects (planets, water and nitrogen) are perfectly fine as the subjects of those clauses. They are in context and they are natural. And most readers will easily understand them.

But we should try to avoid using too many uninhabited clauses in everyday, non-technical writing, because most readers will not easily understand them. And there is a cumulative effect: when readers encounter sentence after tiring sentence with no people, they soon give up and stop reading.

Here are two real-world examples of uninhabited clauses that, for the sake of clarity, should have been inhabited.

Example

The July 30, 2009 edition of The Wall Street Journal carried an opinion piece called “GovernmentCare’s Assault on Seniors.” Here’s one sentence:

“Driving these cuts is the misconception that preventative care can eliminate sickness.”

Boiled down to its elements, the main clause says: “Misconception is driving.”

It’s an uninhabited clause, and it is not very clear. For purposes of discussion, I will guess that the author means to say something like this:

Proponents of these cuts mistakenly believe that preventative care can eliminate sickness.

See how that works? Instead of misconception is driving we have proponents believe. Just putting in some people made the sentence clearer and more natural-sounding.

Example

The July 26, 2009 edition of The Gazette (Colorado Springs, CO), carried an article called “Casualties of War, Part I: The hell of war comes home.” Here’s one sentence:

“Soldiers say the torture and killing of Iraqi civilians lurked in the ranks.”

Boiled down to its elements, the main clause says: “torture and killing lurked.” This is an uninhabited clause. The subject consists of one noun (torture) and one gerund (killing), both non-human.

Strictly speaking, “torture and killing lurked” is not the main clause of the sentence: the main clause is “Soldiers say.” However, “torture and killing lurked” feels like the main clause, and “Soldiers say” feels like an adverbial clause – in the sense of, “According to soldiers, the torture and killing of Iraqi civilians lurked in the ranks.”

Now, what does the author mean by his sentence, “Soldiers say the torture and killing of Iraqi civilians lurked in the ranks.”? He may mean one or more of the following:

Some soldiers in the ranks had tortured or killed Iraqi civilians, and they felt guilty about having done so.

Some soldiers in the ranks had tortured or killed Iraqi civilians, and they feared that they would be ordered to torture or kill again.

Some soldiers in the ranks had not tortured or killed Iraqi civilians, but they had witnessed or heard about torture or killing and had been horrified.

Some soldiers in the ranks had not tortured or killed Iraqi civilians, but they feared that they would be ordered to torture or kill.

Or other possible interpretations. We can guess all we want, but the point is, why did the author use bad diction that forces his readers to guess?

Some authors do it merely because they are careless writers – or careful writers having a bad day. Other authors do it because they are (consciously or unconsciously) being evasive.

This author may have been evasive. I do not know what is in his heart, but I have noticed that many authors use evasive-sounding diction when writing about intense political topics such as torture. For example, they may want to believe that “our side” never tortures, and when they hear reports (true or false) about “our side” torturing civilians, they suffer the anxiety of cognitive dissonance and retreat into evasive language for comfort.

I cited a similar example in an earlier post; the author of that example also used evasive-sounding diction. To his credit, that author was honest enough to acknowledge that he was and is evasive about the topic.

The Takeaway: If you write for non-technical readers, try to avoid using bad diction and creating uninhabited clauses where they don’t belong. If you’re not sure whether you’re using this form of bad diction, try this old reliable technique: look at each main clause and identify the subject and verb. (Once you get the hang of this, you can do it rapidly.) If you find that most of your main clauses sound like circumstances dictate, institutions embrace, factors mitigate and the like, you will know you need to put in some people. And if you ever find yourself suffering anxiety as you write, try to determine whether you are struggling with cognitive dissonance; then you can decide, with a clear head, how to proceed.